Of Furless Ferrets
by astraeos
Summary: DMHG, AU 6th year: When the results of a single spell leave Draco Malfoy friendless, a social outcast, and worst of all, without his usual stunning looks, it'll take more than his famed 'charm' to help him find his place. [Contains Bratty!Draco]
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the characters in the book do not belong to me.**

**A/N: This fic features what I refer to as the "annoying little brat" version of Draco, whom I find particularly fun to play with. Hope you enjoy reading about him!**

* * *

"Careful, you oaf," snapped the blond boy, glaring at the hair stylist in the mirror. "My looks are worth more than you make in a decade." The patient stylist ignored him and continued to snip pale golden strands of hair.

"Father," drawled the boy, "remind me again why I must put up with this ridiculous butcher with scissors." Lucius Malfoy detached himself from the wall on which he had been leaning, raising an eyebrow as he stared at his only son.

"This man is an award-winning Muggle barber—"

"Exactly, a barbarian! So why—watch those scissors, or you will sincerely regret it—must I endure this refined torture?" Draco Malfoy continued as if the stylist was deaf. "In fact, it's not even refined. For heaven's sake, Father, this man cannot even control his own hair, do you actually expect him to be able to improve mine?" He cast a loving look at his own reflection.

Lucius rolled his eyes. "The newest fashion is to have your hair disarranged—" Fortunately for his prominent Death Eater status, Lucius' habit of glancing occasionally at Narcissa's fashion magazines remained unknown to his colleagues.

"Disarranged!" Draco's eyes widened in horror and he clutched the arms of his chair convulsively, turning even paler. "Do you mean to say that this barbarian—"

"Barber," Lucius corrected.

"—barbarian will _disarrange_ my hair? Destroy the work of a lifetime? Ruin my reputation among the Slytherins?" He paused. "Well, actually, if it gets rid of Pansy Parkinson it may well be worth it—but no! He will do no such thing to my lovely, precious—"

"_Draco_," his father interrupted, "all that he will do is trim it properly so that it doesn't look quite so unsophisticated. After all, neither you nor I can properly perform any type of Beautifying Spell, and it's no use asking your mother." Both Lucius and Draco winced at the thought of what the overly-sophisticated Narcissa might do to Draco's hair. He could easily end up with bright red dreadlocks.

"But _still_," Draco whined, "it's an insult to Malfoy Pride that I have to go to a Muggle barber just to fix my hair."

"Well, then," the stylist said calmly, speaking for the first time, "your 'Malfoy Pride' may rest in peace." He drew a wand from among the bottles and combs in one of his deep pockets. "I'm afraid, however, that your hair will not have the same privilege." Raising the wand and pointing it at Draco's head, he muttered two words, so low that neither of the Malfoys could hear him. Then, giving them a mischievous smile, he Disapparated.

Quickly recovering from his initial shock—a barbarian carrying a wand!--Draco turned to his father. "Well," he said, shrugging, "it could have been worse. At least the barbarian left my perfect hair intact." It was then that he noticed the stunned look on Lucius' face. "What?" he demanded. "What did—" He swiveled in his chair to face the mirror—and screamed.

* * *

It took all of Lucius' strength and a Full Body Bind spell to transport Draco home, and it required several tranquilizing potions and an extra strong Slumber Potion in order to keep him quiet and put him to sleep. At last, nearly three hours later, the now very disheveled and completely exhausted Lucius sank into a chair opposite his wife. Narcissa, dramatic as always, was tragically dabbing at her eyes with a silk and lace handkerchief and occasionally sobbing out phrases like "my poor baby" and "his hair, his _hair_," then bursting altogether into tears.

"What can we _do_, Lucius?" Narcissa was on the verge of hysterics. "Next week is the train to Hogwarts and he can't, no, he _can't_ go like that. Oh, my darling boy…" and she began crying again.

Lucius was trying his best to keep Narcissa's tears from staining his cloak, but without much success. "Well, what _can_ we do?" he snapped irritably. His nerves had been frayed enough in his battle with Draco, and Narcissa's theatrics were not comforting. "I've tried every counter-charm and healing spell I know, and none of them have had the slightest effect. He'll go to school as usual. After all, if they let that Longbottom boy attend class, considering his looks, Draco will fit right in." This only sent Narcissa into another bout of tears. At last, Lucius lost his temper. "The boy's too vain as it is, Narcissa, and you only pamper him! He will go to school as usual, and that will be the end of this discussion!" He stormed off upstairs, thinking longingly of all those tranquilizing potions he had brewed.

Needless to say, Draco was less than pleased with his parents' decision, but he obeyed them after Lucius most convincingly demonstrated the newest torture curse (taught _exclusively_ to Death Eaters) on one of the several spiders skittering around the Malfoy Manor. Nevertheless, though the formerly blond Slytherin knew enough not to complain around his father, he continued to whimper about his misfortune to his mother. Their daily crying fests continued until the day when Lucius, disturbed during a very important meeting with Voldemort by a call from a frantic house elf, found both of them sobbing convulsively on a pile made up of several of Lucius' best cloaks. After that, Draco was locked in his room until the day that the Hogwarts Express would depart.

* * *

**Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated, and thanks for reading!**


	2. Wrong Compartment, Drakie

**Disclaimer: No, the Harry Potter characters have not become mine since yesterday. **

**A/N: **I would not normally update this often, but I'm bored and do have quite a bit of this story written out already, so I decided to post up the second chapter. It's longer than the first chapter by a few pages, I think, and I hope you enjoy finding out just what happened to poor Draco's hair!

* * *

"_Draco!_"

Lucius closed his eyes in a brief moment of agony. After forcibly detaching Draco from his bedpost, to which he had magically fastened himself, and dragging him away from Narcissa, despite her hysterical pleas, he had been looking forward to a quiet send-off at the King's Cross Station. So much for his hopes.

Pansy Parkinson rocketed forward through the crowd, her muddy brown eyes alight with glee at the sight of her beloved. "Oh, _Drakie_," she squealed, throwing herself at his rigid body, "didn't you _miss_ me? _Why_ didn't you owl me? I was so _worried_—" She stopped short as she noticed that Draco's head was covered by a black hood which shadowed his face. "Draco, _don't_ be a silly boy. Now, take off your hood for your _darling_ Pansy." Her tone was sickeningly sweet, reminding Draco of the tone which he had heard Hagrid, that overgrown lump, use with the Blast-Ended Skrewts.

"No." Draco's voice was muffled by the black cloth, but his answer was plain enough.

Pansy's eyes began to brim over, much to Lucius' dismay. "After all I've _done_ for you," she began to sob, as Lucius slowly began to back away, "you can't just _refuse_ me like that!"

Draco remained silent, though his father thought that he may have heard a snort from the depths of the hood.

"Take it _off_, that's a good boy," Pansy implored, batting her rather wet eyelashes for added effect.

The hooded figure didn't move.

The Slytherin girl's eyes hardened, and her chin began to stick out. "Take it _off_, I said!"

Lucius shrank back, but Draco stood his ground.

Pansy drooped, her shoulders slumping as she started to turn away. "Well, if you _insist_…"

Draco relaxed, just as she whirled and snatched off his hood—and screamed.

The formerly-blond Slytherin was bald, and slightly green-tinged bumps covered his scalp, making him look as though he had shaved his head and then dipped it in a carton of undiluted Bubotuber pus. Pansy backed away, her formerly doting face twisted in revulsion.

"What have you _done_?" Her exuberant voice was reduced to a barely-audible hiss.

"What have _I_ done?" Though Draco's tone was soft, almost mocking, and a small smile played about his lips, his grey eyes narrowed and beneath his robes, one hand gripped his wand tightly. "What have _I_ done?" he repeated, his voice rising in fury. "All _I_ had the misfortune to do was to run afoul of a confounded Muggle barbarian—no," Draco stopped, frowning, "he wasn't a Muggle, he cursed me…perhaps a Mudblood, then—"

Lucius cut his son off as he paused for breath. "Draco," he snarled under his breath, "Malfoys do _not_ make scenes in public. If you must explain what happened to your hair, you will do it as your family honor requires—with your back against a wall and a wand in your hand, ready to defend your word against all who doubt it. Clear?"

With that, Lucius vanished into the crowd, thanking Merlin that Draco had not recalled that incident when he had knocked out Arthur Weasley in the Flourish & Blotts Bookshop. Or when he had fired the Dark Mark into the sky at the Quidditch World Cup. Or especially that little mishap, just last year, which they had taken great care to keep out of the spotlight. It had involved two dragon eggs, a Dementor, and a charmed shower cap, though Lucius _still_ maintained that the entire accident would have never happened if the confounded Ministry officials would stop being so paranoid about the smuggling of dragon eggs.

* * *

Muttering foul words as loud as he dared, Draco strode towards the train, having deposited his trunk in the baggage car. He could feel people's stares, hear their uneasy whispers and barely-stifled giggles, and he gritted his teeth. _So _this_ is what it's like for Potter_, he thought furiously. He raised his head and swept the crowd with his best Malfoy glare, a combination of his disdainful, slightly pitying, and _aren't-you-all-lucky-that-you-can-set-eyes-on-me _looks. Unfortunately, with nearly everyone knowing what lay under that hood of his, it wasn't nearly as effective. In fact, if anything, the giggles grew even louder. Pretending that their laughter went unheard, Draco raised his eyebrows slightly and stepped into the train compartment closest to him, stumbling slightly on the steps leading up to it. Open laughter burst out behind him as he gathered together what shreds of dignity he had left and closed the compartment door behind him.

_Just my luck,_ he thought desperately, freezing upon seeing who the occupants of the compartment were, _Potter, the Weasel, and the Mudblood. _He was all for sneaking out before they could see him, but it was too late.

"Malfoy," the Weasel leered, "Nice to see that they haven't kicked you out yet. I thought that after that little fiasco with the shower cap, you wouldn't dare show your pointy little ferret face around Hogwarts again."

Draco's mind was working fast. Apparently, Potter and his hench-creatures hadn't heard what happened to his hair yet. That was an advantage. But how in the world did the Weasel find out about the incident of the shower cap?

"My dad works for the Ministry, remember, Ferretboy?" The Weasel's grin was threatening to split his freckled face in two. "Not everyone is as tolerant of your family's…misadventures as Fudge is."

"In other words, Malfoy," the Mudblood put in, "not everyone can be bought off by the sight of gold and little else."

Draco looked down his nose at the bushy-haired girl who was now smiling very sweetly and very impudently at him. He snorted softly. _Ugly as ever. She did look all right that one time during the Yule Ball, but she never followed up on it. Pity, really. _"Granger, those teeth of yours aren't as perfect as you seem to think they are. If I were you, I wouldn't show them off quite as prominently."

She opened her mouth to make a smart reply—Draco had to admit it, her comebacks were pretty good—but before she could form a sentence, the youngest Weasel came rushing in.

"You'll never guess what happened to Draco Malfoy's hair!" she started enthusiastically. "It's completely gone, and—" She caught sight of Draco standing there hooded, silent, and motionless, and an evil grin that was the twin of her brother's spread over her face. "Like I was saying," she continued deliberately, the grin growing with every word, "Malfoy's hair is completely gone, and his scalp is covered with—"

Draco sighed. One of the chief rules in the Malfoy Code was to never, ever lose your composure, no matter how dire the situation. _Well_, he thought irately, _might as well get it over with. The Weaslette might describe my head as being far worse than it actually is, and we can't have that, can we?_

"Here," he said irritably, jerking off his hood. "Have a good look." The look of shock on all three of his enemies' faces made it almost worth it for a second—at least, until the Weasel started hooting, and Potter joined in. Granger covered her mouth with one hand to stifle her laughter, amusement vying with pity on her face.

"Well," Weasel finally managed to speak between his fits of gleeful laughter, "at least you won't have to worry about messing up your hair playing Quidditch anymore! That is," he added as an afterthought, "if what you do can be called _playing_ Quidditch."

Draco bristled. "Even with my hair gone," he retorted cuttingly, "I look far better than you ever will, _Weasel_. Anyway," he smiled disarmingly, "at least I don't fall off my broom in the path of a Quaffle and call it 'saving a goal.'"

Weasley was on his feet, growling swear words under his breath, and Draco was beginning to feel really cheerful for the first time since his accident, when Granger—as usual—just had to ruin it. She stepped in between the two boys, grabbed the redhead's arm, and forced him back to his seat, saying, "He's not worth it, Ron, we all know that you're an awesome Keeper—"

Annoyed at being deprived of what had promised to be a very interesting fight, Draco quickly retaliated. "An awesome Keeper, Granger?" he sneered. "Indeed. Weasley's Keeping skills are about as advanced as your knowledge of beauty tips." He smirked at the faint flush that spread over her cheeks. "We all know that your looks are second only to Longbottom's."

"Well, Malfoy," she shrugged slightly, a mocking smile on her lips, "at least I still have the capability to look beautiful if I want to. With your _loss_," her gaze swept over his head, "I doubt you could manage to look good even with all your father's money at your disposal."

Draco was at a loss to reply. Besides, Granger had a look in her eyes that Draco recognized—it was the same look that she had worn on that day back in third year when she had slapped him. Merlin, that girl could hit hard, Mudblood or not. "Fine," he snapped, "so I may not be my former gorgeous self." He ignored the skeptical noises from the two Weasleys and Potter and continued, flashing his most confident smile. "However, I'll still be the most popular Slytherin around. Watch and see."

"Oh, I will, Malfoy." There was no longer any trace of a smile on Hermione's face. "I most definitely will."

* * *

**A/N: **Liked it? I'd love to hear what you think!


	3. Priceless Pillows

**Disclaimer: I'm still not even taking into account the events of Half-Blood Prince, and therefore it may be safely supposed that these characters do not rightfully belong to me--though I do confess to stealing them from JKR's bedroom as she slept. **

I'm sorry that this chapter took so long--my family just went through a cross-country move (more like halfway across the world, really), and I was without Internet for a while, at least on my computer.

Another thing that everyone may well hate me for is that this story does have a female Blaise. I started writing this fic back in December of last year, and I didn't have the sense to post it up before HBP came out (I was too nervous and unsure if it was any good), and I had this wonderful mental picture of a fem!Blaise--which, unfortunately, doesn't come close to the real Blaise. So I am sorry for that, too, and I hope everyone forgives me...

No more apologies, now, on to the story!

* * *

As soon as Draco was out of sight of the Dream Team, his confidence evaporated, but he kept up the façade. "Yes, I'll still be the hottest Slytherin around," he muttered, yanking his hood lower over his face as he walked towards the unofficial Slytherin compartment. 

"Draco." The cool female voice was devoid of any emotion.

Draco stopped dead, then turned slowly towards the girl. "Blaise," he replied, his tone just as neutral as hers. "How was your summer?"

She didn't smile. "Fine, yours?" Though her words may have implied a question, both of them knew that these pleasantries were meaningless, preliminaries to the real conversation.

"Fine."

"Good." With the required ritual of etiquette over and done with, she shifted her posture slightly, folding her arms over her chest, and raising her chin. "What's happened to your hair?"

If Blaise's abruptness startled Draco, he didn't show it. "Didn't Pansy tell you?" he asked sarcastically. Every Slytherin knew that Pansy not only was aware of every bit of information floating through Hogwarts and most of the wizarding world, she was ready to tell everyone whom she met, regardless of whether her rumors were strictly appropriate for her audience's ears. Last year, two Slytherin first-years had been sent to the hospital wing in hysterical tears after hearing some of Pansy's more…indelicate stories.

Blaise waved a hand airily. "Pansy's version of the story hasn't reached me yet, as no doubt it will soon. No, I was there on the platform."

"In that case, why do you need an explanation?" Draco demanded, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't," she said, shrugging slightly, "I just thought it would be rather nice to find out what ridiculous adventure you'd been involved in this time."

"Well, get used to disappointment," Draco drawled. If it had been anyone else, he would have thrown in a few insults, but Blaise was the quickest among the sixth-year Slytherins in cursing and hexing—after Draco himself, of course. The only thing about Blaise faster than her spells was her temper, which, as everyone knew from either rumor or experience, was formidable.

"Why would I?" she questioned sweetly. Draco tensed. He knew all too well that Blaise was only sweet to him when she was about to make one of her famously cutting remarks. "After all," she paused, eyes glinting with malicious pleasure, "the Zabinis aren't ones to be disappointed. Failure is reserved for less _noble_ families, don't you agree?"

The Slytherin prefect stared at her without the slightest trace of unease in his expression, but Blaise, trained nearly as well as he was in detecting others' moods, noticed that one hand was clenched tightly into a fist, and moving slowly towards his wand. Smiling slightly, she reached into her robes, making sure that her own wand was within easy reach, then continued.

"You know, Draco, most Pureblood families at least ensure that a certain amount of…say, sophistication is evident in their behavior. The Malfoys, on the other hand," she sighed, shaking her head in mock sadness, "are growing notorious for their little scandals. Tell me, is it true that one of your cousins is an Auror? And that your aunt actually broke out of Azkaban, openly declaring her support for the Dark Lord?" Her tone changed slightly, becoming softer, condescending, as though she was speaking to a small child. "Draco, you know that there is such a thing as moderation. Whether we admire the Dark Lord's actions or not, we do not show any such thing in public. We present a smooth, unblemished front to the world—then we reveal our true selves behind locked doors." She sounded as though she was reciting a well-learned and oft-repeated lesson.

"Great, Blaise," Draco's voice was still controlled, though the knuckles of his clenched hand were white by now. "How many years did it take you to learn that word-perfect? I know you never thought of that on your own."

Blaise just smirked, knowing that she had the upper hand. Fighting the nearly irresistible temptation to whip out his wand and curse her right out of the train, Draco turned and stalked away. As he opened the door to the Slytherin compartment, Blaise's smile widened, and she murmured under her breath: "And the first round of the year, Blaise vs. Draco ends with Blaise in the lead."

* * *

He slammed the door hard behind him and slid into the nearest seat, the one next to Crabbe. Leaning his head against the back of the bench and closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, grateful for the silence in the compartment and the lack of insulting girls… 

"Draco?"

Draco groaned inwardly. "What, Goyle?"

"Is it true?"

"Is _what_ true?" One bright Slytherin had once said having what amounted to a conversation with Crabbe and Goyle was equivalent to sitting in a locked room with a sleep-deprived and sugar-high Filch for three days. At the moment, Draco thought it would be more like a week.

"Your hair…"

"What _about_ my hair?" Draco's eyes were open now, and he had turned so that he was facing Goyle with the expression that he usually wore right before he hexed people into the hospital wing. Goyle shook his head dumbly, and Draco smiled, half-closing his eyes again. "That's right, Goyle. Nothing happened to my hair."

By the time the Hogwarts Express was halfway to its destination, each and every person on the train, barring a few Muggleborn first-years who had no clue what the word "Malfoy" signified in the wizarding world, knew all about Draco Malfoy's altered looks—though none had yet figured out just what had caused it.

Which, of course, was just the way that Draco liked it. As long as he was the center of attention, he wasn't too worried about just what people were saying. He was confident that once everyone realized that he was still _himself_, notwithstanding the altered hairstyle—or lack thereof—his loyal followers would flock back to him and he would once more. That is, all of his loyal followers excepting Pansy Parkinson. He could manage quite well without her.

* * *

Back in the compartment with Harry and Ron, Hermione was oddly silent, her chin resting on her hand as she sat, thinking. The look on Draco's face as he had made his bold statement lingered in her mind, unsettling her slightly. His confidence was almost admirable, under the circumstances, but Hermione was certain that it would not hold. Strangely enough, this thought worried her. The image of Draco Malfoy, her sworn enemy since first year, standing humiliated and beaten in the midst of his fellow Slytherins, _worried_ her. 

Of course, the fact that she was even wasting her time musing over Malfoy's dilemma was strange, to say the least, and was definitely not lessening her mental confusion. Or was it really so unusual? After all, the only time in her memory that she had ever missed a class out of sheer carelessness was that day when she had slapped Malfoy. The Timeturner couldn't be completely blamed for her forgetfulness that day…

"Hermione?" Harry's voice, unusually soft, broke into her thoughts, and she looked up to meet his vibrant green eyes as he watched her, concerned. "Are you all right?"

She smiled to reassure him. "Of course. I was just wondering how Malfoy's going to take it when he realizes that his fan club is going to lose members."

Ron snorted at that. "Yeah, I bet the only one left will be Pansy Parkinson." He imitated the pug-faced girl, flaring his nostrils and batting his eyelashes rapidly to imitate her usual expression. "Oh, Drakie," he squeaked, mimicking her voice perfectly, "I just love your new look. The green tinges are just _perfect_ with your dead-white skin, don't you think?"

Amid the general laughter that followed, Luna walked in with Neville, her eyes, as usual, dreamily fixed somewhere above her head, giving everyone the impression that she had wandered in quite by accident. Her manner changed, however, as soon as she sat down. Leaning forward with a conspiratorial light in her eyes, she whispered, "Has anyone seen Malfoy's hair?"

"Yeah," Ron said coolly. "That's old news, Luna." Even after their adventure in the Department of Mysteries, he still had trouble communicating with the odd Ravenclaw, though, by now, even Harry had become accustomed to her eccentricities.

"No," Luna sighed, rolling her eyes, "I mean his _hair_—you know, the white-blond strands which used to cover his scalp?" She didn't get along any better with Ron than he did with her, as was evident in her tone. Despite the fact that Luna usually didn't pay enough attention to people to let them irritate her, Ron was the single exception who managed to provoke her every time he opened his mouth.

Ginny blinked. Though she was the one out of their group who could usually communicate best with Luna, even she was floored by this unusual question. "Well…it's not on his head," she said carefully.

Luna pounded the arm of her chair with her fist, narrowly missing Crookshanks' tail. "Exactly! And," her voice dropped to a confidential whisper, "I know just who stole it."

"Do you really?" Ron raised his eyebrows, the picture of disbelief. "Let me guess: Crumple-Horned Snorkacks are to blame, aren't they?"

She shook her head vigorously, stringy blond hair flying around her face. "No, of course not," she snapped indignantly. "They're pure carnivores."

"Well," Ron whispered to Harry, ignoring Ginny's disapproving glare, "that certainly rules them out, doesn't it?" Both boys went into a fit of giggling, much to Luna's annoyance.

Thankfully, Ginny, seeing the outraged expression on Luna's face, intervened before she and Ron began one of their famous debates. Last time they fought, Ron had ended up with pumpkin juice and stew splattered all over his robes, and Luna had left the Great Hall with a goblet attached to her forehead with a Sticking Charm. No one was especially eager for the experience to be repeated—everyone at the table within throwing distance had been liberally splattered with a combination of the contents of Luna's soup bowl and the pitcher which, unluckily, had been by Ron's hand at the time. "Well, Luna?" Ginny said, trying to sound cheerful. "Who's stolen Malfoy's hair?"

Luna immediately brightened, her eyes again taking on the faraway, dreamy look that the Gryffindors knew so well. "Well," she said dramatically, raising both hands in the air, "no one really knows, do they?"

Ron sighed loudly. "You just _said_ that you do," he pointed out—rather reasonably, Harry thought.

Interrupted in one of her wide gestures, Luna abruptly lowered her hands and glared at Ron. "As I was _saying_," she continued pointedly, "no one really knows for sure. However," she threw a scathing glance at Ron, who shrugged, "Daddy has a theory that someone wanted it as a collector's item. I mean, imagine the prestige of owning a pillow stuffed with the priceless hair of a Malfoy!" She lapsed into silence, one hand outstretched and trembling slightly, and a reverent look on her face at the thought of such a treasure.

Hermione's voice broke the silence that followed this extraordinary statement—Ron and Harry were too stunned even to laugh, and Ginny had her face buried in Crookshanks' fur and was shaking her head back and forth. "What's so precious about ferret fur?" Hermione asked, half sarcastically, half in genuine confusion.

"It does have rarity value, doesn't it?" Luna replied, dropping her pose as she momentarily returned to the real world.

"That's only because no one's crazy enough to want a Malfoy-hair pillow!" Ron's face was bright red from a mixture of laughter and incredulity.

Luna stiffened dangerously, her eyes slitting. "_I_ want one," she said in a tone that made Neville, who had been becoming tenser by the moment, involuntarily yelp, and the rest of the people in the compartment reach for their wands, ready to perform shield spells. Even Crookshanks dived under the nearest seat.

Ron leaned forward slightly, his eyebrows raised in a challenge. "That's because you're—"

But just what insult Ron was planning to throw at the furious Luna, none of them found out, because, just at that moment, the Hogwarts Express came to a sudden and very unexpected stop. Everyone was thrown forward, but despite the resulting tangle of people, bags, and one very irritated cat, Harry was on his feet in seconds, wand out and facing the door. He remembered all too well what had happened the last time the train was stopped like this, back in their third year—and he would not be caught unawares again.

The compartment door swung open, and Harry raised his wand a few inches—only to find that he was pointing it at a bemused old lady who was trying to carry at least four bags in one hand, and was fumbling in her pocket with the other, mumbling something which he couldn't quite hear. She looked up at the wandtip a few feet from her nose, and, within a second, her own wand was in her hand and pointed at his face, with a quickness that belied her obvious age. "Now, my boy," she drawled softly, in a voice which was somehow familiar to him, "Wouldn't want you getting hurt, messing' with things that aren't to be touched."

It was a mark of Harry's Gryffindor bravery that, even with an obviously experienced witch holding him at wandpoint, he showed no sign of fear or even discomfort. "Who are you?" he demanded.

The witch examined his face closely before making her reply. "Well, I'd have expected more respect from my future students," she said coolly, a small smile on her face, "but I suppose that Umbridge hag's ruined your sense of courtesy. She always was a little brat."

Hermione jumped up and grabbed Harry's wand, hissing at him, "It's our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, put your wand _down_!"

"Good observation, dearie," the woman said, lowering her own wand. "You'll be in Ravenclaw?"

"Gryffindor, actually," Hermione replied, smiling back at the old lady and kicking Ron when he snorted.

"Ow!" Ron cried out, rubbing his shin—before catching the witch's stern eye and hastily standing up straight.

"You're a Weasley," she stated matter-of-factly, her eyes lingering on his bright red hair, "and you," turning to Ginny, "must be his sister." She ran a critical eye over Neville. "A Longbottom, most definitely. Your grandmother's a fine witch, you know," she added, her voice gentler. Neville gulped and nodded, smiling nervously.

"Lovegood," she continued, glancing at Luna, who, as usual, was dreamily staring into space, unaware of what was going on. "You can always tell from the eyes. And, of course," she said finally, looking at Harry, "you are the famously infamous Harry Potter. I must say," a wicked smile appeared on her face, "saving the world hasn't improved your manners much." Harry looked down, abashed, and began to stammer out an apology, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. "No, you were right to have your wand at the ready. First lesson I always teach my students, always be prepared for anything. You'll do well in my class." At last, she turned to Hermione. "And you, dearie…if I remember right from what I've heard from the other teachers, you'll be Hermione Granger."

Hermione nodded politely. "Yes, Professor…?"

The witch smiled broadly. "Professor Cassiopeia, at your service," she said, sweeping an exaggerated curtsy. At the sound of her name, Hermione started, but it passed unnoticed by anyone. "I'll be teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts this year, as Miss Granger so kindly pointed out—and trust me, I'll be much better than that Umbridge half-wit." She bowed once more, then backed towards the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be acquainting myself with my other students." The compartment door shut softly behind her and her four bags.

After she left, there was a moment of silence—then everyone started talking at once.

"Did you _see _how fast she pulled out her wand? It was brilliant!"

"Her reflexes are so good!"

"She called Umbridge a hag, did you hear? And a half-wit!"

Ron, for a change, was silent. Hermione, concerned, lightly tapped the top of his head. "Ron, are you all right?" He didn't respond, staring off into space with a look remarkably like Luna's. "_Ronniekins_!" That was bound to get his attention.

However, instead of promptly retaliating, Ron simply sighed and smiled dreamily. "Defense Against the Dark Arts is going to be _fun_ this year," he finally said.

Hermione laughed. "Absolutely."

* * *

I made the chapter longer this time, to make up for the delay--though it's more than likely there will be more delay that that once school starts in a week--so I hope everyone enjoyed it! Please let me know what you thought of it--I love reading reviews, especially when they have constructive criticism! 


	4. Dire Warnings

**Disclaimer: I own none of the characters in this fanfic, they all belong to J. K. Rowling.**

This chapter took forever too...and the fact that the A/N took months longer is a bit strange, but forgive me :)

* * *

"Why do we have to watch the Sorting every year?" moaned Ron, looking longingly at the table, in hopes that food would suddenly appear.

Ginny glared at her brother. "_Because_," she began, in the lecturing tone that she had acquired from Hermione, "as older and more mature students, it is our duty to make the younger ones feel at home and welcome, and the easiest way to do so is by watching the Sorting, applauding for those who have been Sorted into our house, and, at the same time, furthering our knowledge about their characters and recognizing certain traits of these first-years, according to their chosen houses. Besides," she added, raising her eyebrows slightly and sounding more like Hermione than ever, "you're a _prefect_."

Ron stared at her in mock horror, and nudged Hermione with his elbow. "Hermione," he whispered comically, "Ginny…brainwashed…" But Hermione seemed lost in thought, her eyes fixed on the other side of the hall, for once not paying attention to the Sorting. "Hermione?"

She snapped back to attention, an almost guilty expression flashing across her face for a brief instant before she smiled lightly at the boy next to her. "No, Ron, I haven't been doing anything to your little sister, all right? However, I personally think it's good that she's learned some responsibility and integrity, don't you?" She winked at Ginny, who grinned back at her.

"Exactly," Ginny went on, beginning to sound almost like Umbridge. "Responsibility is one of the greatest attributes to be found in young wizarding folk, responsibility and obedience—"

"Your attention, please," called Professor Dumbledore, his long blue robe sweeping the ground as he stood. "I have, as usual, a few words to say to both the new and old students," Ron whimpered softly, holding his stomach, "but they can surely wait until after we eat! Tuck in!"

In the applause and soft laughter that followed, Ron's voice was clearly heard enthusiastically saying to Neville, "Wonderful wizard, Dumbledore—he truly appreciates the value of food, doesn't he?" However, all conversation came to an abrupt pause as the loaded dishes magically appeared on every table, piled with the scrumptious food so typical of Hogwarts meals.

About fifteen minutes later, after Ron had plowed through three helpings of mashed potatoes, two servings of steak and kidney pie, half a plate of a delicious fruit salad, and two slices of freshly-baked bread, all with a disgraceful disregard for table manners, he stopped long enough to glance around at his fellow Gryffindors, most of whom, though not having his capacity to eat quite so much, had managed to demolish piles of food not too much smaller than his own. However, Hermione was again staring absently across the hall at whatever had attracted her attention during the Sorting, folding and unfolding her napkin abstractedly.

"Hermione?"

Again, she turned to face him, too quickly for innocence, and with the same faintly embarrassed expression which she had worn before. "Yes?"

Ron shook his head at her despairingly. "You haven't _eaten_ anything," he accused, reaching for his flagon of pumpkin juice.

"Of course I have," she replied calmly, regaining some of her usual composure. After five years spent with Ron, Hermione knew well that it was best to avoid any complicated debates about food with him—they often turned out to be endless.

However, Ron would not be put off so easily. "You haven't eaten _anything_," he repeated, with a shift of emphasis specially designed to be irritating.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ron, what's it to you how much I eat?" Her foot found Harry's under the table, and she managed to kick him without Ron's knowledge. Harry immediately snapped to attention, taking in the situation in a glance.

"Ron!" he called loudly from his seat across the wide table. "Listen, mate, what did you think of that Quidditch match between the Cannons and the Pixies? That last save by the Cannons' Keeper was just amazing, did you see it?"

Hermione smiled her thanks at Harry, who nodded slightly in return, still laying out every detail of a Quidditch game which the two boys had discussed over eighteen times in the week after it was played, and still had managed to relive every second of without becoming bored. Shaking her head slightly in wonder at their animated conversation, which was no less the interesting to Harry just because it was a diversion, she attempted to turn her attention back to one of the numerous dialogues in progress at the Gryffindor table—but with no success. Her glance continued to stray to the other end of the hall, where Draco Malfoy was sitting, between Crabbe and Goyle, as usual—but given a wide berth by all the other Slytherins. Pansy Parkinson, especially, sat at the other end of the table, casting foul looks at the hooded Draco every now and then, and giggling at an even higher pitch than usual, as if to show Draco and the rest of the Slytherins how little she cared about him. Even Blaise Zabini, who usually sat opposite Draco, if just to torment him during mealtimes as well, was next to the Bloody Baron, about seven seats away from Crabbe. In fact, Hermione suspected that the only reason why Crabbe and Goyle were still seated with Draco was not due to their loyalty, but because they were too slow to realize that he was being shunned by their entire house.

Though the signs of his rejection were fairly obvious, if Draco himself showed any signs of noticing, they were hidden by the dark hood which concealed most of his face. Other than his slightly jerky movements and the way he pushed the food around on his plate, quite unlike his usual graceful poise, Hermione could detect nothing that indicated that he was in the least concerned over the sudden shift in his popularity—and despite herself, she could not help but admire his courage. He, of all people, must know the price that ostracized Slytherins had to pay, but he seemed ready for anything.

However, most, if not all, of Draco's remaining dignity was merely a façade. Under his hood, his eyes scanned each face at the Slytherin table as he noted that not one of them was willing to glance his way, though some of the younger students darted furtive looks at him, their expressions clearly showing the mixture of revulsion and disdain which they felt for him. He bit his lip in impotent fury, biting back the scorching words which he longed to release, knowing that whatever he said would only be ridiculed.

Raising his stare to the teachers' table, he could see Professor Dumbledore with his perpetual smile, but most of the other teachers looked rather more cheerful than usual—and that despicable Hagrid was wearing a positively gleeful look on his hairy face. Professor Snape, however, was glaring at everyone with helpless rage, a particularly foul scowl visible behind his greasy locks of hair. Draco smirked briefly, but his smile disappeared completely as he lifted his head, looking at the Gryffindor table.

Hermione dropped her gaze to the table, pretending to study her plate, but she knew that he had seen her. _Curses. How is it that the one and only time in my life that I was staring at—no, _studying_a boy, he just happens to glance up? And why did it just have to be Draco Malfoy? _She picked up her fork and proceeded to minutely examine the leftmost prong, hoping devoutly that Malfoy would have gone back to his scrutiny of the rest of the hall.

He hadn't. Silvery-grey eyes narrowed, one eyebrow lifted in perfect Malfoy style, he was staring at Hermione's slightly pink-tinged face, waiting for her to look up. It didn't disturb him terribly that she had been staring at him—he had become accustomed to the hypnotized stares of at least one-third of the girls in the room by his ninth birthday. However, it _was_ unsettling, even for Draco, that it was Hermione Granger whose gaze he had intercepted—not only because of the fact that he had nearly decided that she was immune to his charms, and therefore probably not human, but also because of their parting words in the compartment.

"_However, I'll still be the most popular Slytherin around. Watch and see." _

"_Oh, I will, Malfoy." There was no longer any trace of a smile on Hermione's face. "I most definitely will." _

Did the Mudblood mean to take his words literally? Draco shuddered at the mental image which came, unbidden, into his mind: a bushy-haired, buck-toothed girl walking stealthily behind a boy with a stunning profile and golden strands of hair—_no, not the hair_, he corrected himself bitterly. He had not quite managed to adjust his mental picture of himself to reality.

Shaking his head slightly and refocusing his gaze on Granger, he could see no signs of her embarrassment of just a few moments ago: all traces of a blush had disappeared from her cheeks, and she was cheerfully carrying on a conversation with Longbottom, of all people. His lips twisted in an ironic smile. _A perfect couple, those two. Wouldn't be surprised if he stole her from Weasley and Potter—though even Potter's a bit better than the competition. I'd hate to think of the children though…_

"Welcome, one and all!" Professor Dumbledore had stood again, now that the noise level in the hall had increased, clearly evidencing that the majority of the students had finished feasting. "Permit me to take a few moments of your time for our start-of-the-term notices. As usual, first-years, please remember that the Forest just past the caretaker's hut is strictly off-bounds to _all_ students." His emphasis was not lost on the three Gryffindors, who exchanged grins.

"Our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind all of you that magic is not allowed in corridors between classes, along with the vast majority of all Joke Shop products. He has also decided that all products of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes will be confiscated on sight, and will not be returned.

"Also, we are pleased to welcome our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Cassiopeia."

There was a burst of enthusiastic applause from the Gryffindor table and polite clapping from everyone else—save Luna, who was inexplicably banging her goblet against Cho Chang's plate. Professor Cassiopeia nodded, smiling slightly, but did not rise or try to make a speech, though a rather disappointed Ron was rather hoping that she would have denounced Umbridge to the school.

"Lastly," continued Dumbledore, after the noise had died down, "Professor Trelawney especially wanted me to inform you that she has seen particularly disturbing signs over the past few months during her daily readings. She asked me to warn all of you to be on guard against a mysterious antagonist who, apparently, has an obsession with ferret fur."

Though Professor Dumbledore delivered this speech in a perfectly calm manner, as if there was nothing less out of the ordinary than ferret-loving enemies, the consternation it caused in the Great Hall was significant. The majority of the students either had their heads buried in their hands or had ducked underneath the tablecloths in an effort to muffle their still-audible laughter, while some of the bolder sixth-years snickered while staring pointedly at Malfoy.

Among the teachers, only Professor Trelawney looked completely sober, as even Professor McGonagall was pressing her lips tightly together to hide a smile, and Hagrid was steadily stuffing a napkin into his mouth in an effort to look serious. Professor Snape looked even more furious, and was stabbing savagely at his plate with a spoon.

Only three people in the Hall seemed to be completely oblivious to what had just been said. Professor Dumbledore was still standing with a benevolent smile on his face, appearing to have taken the warning he had just delivered quite seriously. Luna Lovegood, seated right in the middle of the Ravenclaw table, was still cheerfully tapping the rim of her goblet against her plate, Cho Chang having indignantly snatched away hers and moved to the far end of the table. Lastly, Draco Malfoy was still sitting calmly in his place, sipping pumpkin juice from his goblet with no sign of concern, and apparently deaf to the commotion all around him.

"How predictable," Hermione said to herself, an amused smile crossing her lips. She knew very well that almost anyone else in the Hall, having been subjected to such public humiliation, would have either left immediately in utter disgrace or lost their temper completely. Malfoy, however, had done neither, which was somehow as typical of him as it was unexpected. Surrounded by derision, the spoiled brat of Hogwarts was somehow holding up his head, acting as if he was above it all. "But how does he do it?" mused Hermione.

At that moment, Ron abruptly cut off her thoughts by somehow falling off his chair in his fit of laughter, taking the tablecloth and everything on it with him. By the time that she and Harry were able to drag him up from underneath the several plates and pieces of silverware which were piled on top of him, Professor Dumbledore had dismissed the school.

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I'd love to hear what you think of it if you have time:)


	5. House Elves, Poltergeists, and Portraits

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. As usual. **

**A/N: **Well, this one took a while, and I have no excuse for it--other than to apologize again for the AUness. Hope you can enjoy it anyway!

Oh yeah, and this chapter switch POVs a couple of times, so the breaks indicate when that happens.

* * *

"Ron! Come _on_, have you forgotten that we're prefects?" Hermione grabbed hold of Ron's wrist and pulled him towards the bewildered-looking group of first-years who were standing rather uncertainly near the door. "Would you clean up the tablecloth and things, please, Harry?" she called back over her shoulder.

Shaking his head slightly, Harry knelt on the floor and began picking up the several forks, spoons, plates, and goblets scattered on the floor around the Gryffindor table. Of course, Neville and Dean had offered to help, but Harry had waved them on towards the door, seeing that both were eager to be in the Common Room.

Pausing for a moment to straighten his aching back, he heard a faint pattering noise and turned around, only to be knocked to the floor by a greenish blur which hurled itself at him.

"Harry Potter, sir!" a squeaky voice cried. "Dobby is so glad to see you, sir, looking so noble and kind as always!" The thin arms around his waist tightened, nearly cutting off Harry's breath.

"It's great to see you too, Dobby!" Harry smiled down at the little house-elf who was looking adoringly up at him with eyes filled with joyful tears. He gently detached Dobby and rose to his feet, his every movement watched by the ecstatic elf.

"Ah, Harry Potter, sir, Dobby has heard about your great bravery of last year! You have saved the life of the father of your Wheezy, and once again defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" Dobby illustrated his rapturous speech with sweeping gestures of his hands and head. "Truly, Harry Potter is the greatest of all wizards and will follow in Sir Dumbledore's footsteps!" He bowed so low that his nose collided with the handle of a fork.

Feeling a blush spread over his face, Harry could only shake his head. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would start laughing.

"It is true, Harry Potter! Dobby knows you are the most wonderful of wizards, the—"

"Fraternizing with house elves, Potter? How like you," a voice said coldly from somewhere behind Harry.

Harry did not bother to turn around. "Aren't you supposed to lead the miniature Death Eaters to your Common Room, Malfoy?" He gave Dobby, who was visibly trembling, a reassuring nod and smile.

"I believe that would be my concern, not yours, Potter," snapped Draco.

"Oh, I see. You're scared of what everyone will say about your 'new look,' aren't you?" Harry smirked over his shoulder at the still-hooded figure, noting with satisfaction that a movement much like that of the clenching of a fist was visible in one of the overly long sleeves.

"Look, Potter, I don't _care_ what they say, all right? I can still out-hex and out-wit them any time I want." Draco's tone was growing strained, though he was trying to keep it calm.

"Yeah, but I don't think that they'll worship you like they used to, will they? I didn't notice Pansy Parkinson clinging onto your arm, and I don't see Crabbe and Goyle providing their usual bodyguard service. Malfoy, if you think that nothing's changed, you're fooling nobody but yourself."

"Do you think I give a Blast-Ended Skrewt about whom Pansy clings to? She could be dating the Bloody Baron—or you—and I wouldn't notice. As for Crabbe and Goyle, who needs them?" Draco walked around Harry so that he was facing him and pushed his hood back, staring levelly at the other boy's green eyes.

"Malfoy, you couldn't even hurt _Hermione_ that day back in third year. Without your extra muscle, you're pitiful." Harry was rather enjoying this, and even Dobby was beginning to relax, though the tips of his ears were still quivering.

His grey eyes under his disfigured scalp narrowed. "Say that again, Potter."

Dobby squeaked and attempted to hide himself behind a plate, but Harry merely raised an eyebrow. "Oh, do you need reassurance, Malfoy? All right then. You're pitiful."

Absolutely furious, Draco launched himself at Harry, one hand outstretched to grip his throat—but he was brought up short by a sharp pain just under his chin.

"You cheater, you tainted, disgusting—"

Harry grinned cheerfully at Draco's enraged face, keeping his wand firmly against the Slytherin's neck. "Now, now, Malfoy, there's no need for self-abuse. I'm quite ready to accept that you are a disgrace to humankind without you emphasizing it."

Draco snarled something incoherent and unimaginably foul, then contented himself with glaring poisonously at both Harry and Dobby, muttering a string of curses which, unfortunately, did absolutely no good, since his wand was still tucked into his robes.

Sighing dramatically, Harry shook his head in mock despair. "Well, if I must escort you to the Slytherin Common Room, I will. Come along, Dobby. We have to go show all the nice Slytherins how their former Chief and Lord was captured by the combined efforts of a half-blood and a house-elf." He prodded Draco with his wand. "Turn around, Malfoy, and walk fast. I haven't got all night."

"_Fine_, Potter, I'm going," Draco growled. "Get your wand away from my face so I can leave."

"Oh, you don't want me to come along? I was just making up such a nice story about how Dobby disarmed you and then sat on you—"

"Shut up, Potter."

* * *

Draco was halfway to the stone wall that concealed the door to the Slytherin Common Room when it struck him.

"_Dobby? _Why, that traitorous little house-elf has allied itself with _Potter_? Of all the ungrateful creatures—"

"Problems, Master Malfoy?" Peeves' upside-down face leered at Draco from between the poltergeist's transparent legs, clad in shorts of a violent turquoise shade.

"Get out of my way, Peeves." Draco kept walking, ignoring the horrible face Peeves made at him.

"Oh, is ickle Malfoy a bit depressed? Perhaps rejected by a lovely lady?"

The mischievous ghost had pressed the right button. Draco stopped short, the tip of his hood, once again covering his head, quivering with outrage. "I'll have you know that no girl has ever rejected me! And none ever will," he added as an afterthought, with a confident smile.

Peeves flipped right side up and leered at the boy, his face mere inches from the tip of Draco's nose. "Oh, no? But, you know, Peevsy heard some fair damsels talking about you. What was that they said? Oh yes—that pretty Patil dame remarked to her Gryffindor friend that she would prefer Longbottom to you hereafter." Grinning widely, Peeves somersaulted over Draco's head. "They seemed to think something was wrong with your head."

Draco pulled out his wand, eyes icy in his complete fury. "Peeves," he said softly, his voice smooth, "do you know that there are now spells that affect ghosts?"

Blowing a raspberry at him, Peeves shook his head gleefully. "Ain't," he replied laconically.

"Oh, but there are. You see, Lord Voldemort grew tired of listening to a certain poltergeist prattle on and on, and decided to…get rid of him, shall we say? This certain spell would cause your endoplasm or whatever it is that you are made of to ooze beyond your body wall, leaving you little more than a spill of fluid across the floor." Draco smiled wickedly up at the poltergeist, who was beginning to look faintly worried.

"Rubbish," Peeves retorted. "I'd have heard of it, I would. Just because we ghosts are dead, doesn't mean we're deaf and dumb."

Draco shrugged. "I doubt I would have realized that. Anyway, Peeves, have a good night, and try not to torment any Gryffindors, will you?" Giving the rather confused phantom a comradely wink, he walked on cheerfully towards the Slytherin dungeon.

* * *

"Please?"

"No."

"But—"

"No." The Fat Lady folded her arms over her ample chest and glared the Boy-Who-Lived into silence.

Harry slid a hand through his hair and sighed. "I told you, I don't know the password because—"

"No password, no entrance," the portrait replied immovably, her double chin set.

"You can't expect me to stand out here all night!" Harry protested, his temper beginning to flare. He could see now why Sirius had ripped the Fat Lady to shreds that night back in third year. She didn't reply. "Look," he snapped, "this is my sixth year in Hogwarts. Nearly every day for the past five years, I've been going in and out of the Common Room, and for almost all of those times, you've been the portrait hanging over the entrance. How can you possibly not realize that I'm a Gryffindor?"

"You could have taken a Polyjuice Potion," she retorted.

"Right, as if I'd be so thick as to brew up a Polyjuice potion, which takes a _month_ to prepare with _extremely_ difficult ingredients, and not find out the password to the Common Room which I wanted to infiltrate!" he said sarcastically.

The Fat Lady swelled to even greater proportions with rage. "Are you using that tone with _me_, young man?" she demanded furiously.

"Why, no," Harry replied, "I was talking to the little invisible—"

"Sir Cravhelm!" she shrieked. "_Cravhelm_!"

Immediately, Harry heard a strange clanking sound, and through the neighboring portraits, shoving their inhabitants out of his way, galloped a fully armored knight astride his battle horse. Pulling his mount dramatically to a halt beside the Fat Lady, who was glowering fiercely down at Harry, he dismounted and, kneeling before the Fat Lady, kissed her hand.

"You called, my lovely one?" he asked, looking adoringly up at the furious Fat Lady.

"Indeed, Sir Cravhelm, I did. This imp of a boy has insulted me."

Sir Cravhelm cast a rather anxious look down at Harry, who was watching the scene with great interest. "Did he now? Ah, well, my dearest, he is but a boy, as you said—"

The Fat Lady's eyes narrowed to slits. "My honor is at stake, Sir Cravhelm, and you make excuses? Do you call yourself a knight?"

Sir Cravhelm began to back away, moving behind his horse, which was placidly cropping grass. "My jewel, do consider—"

"What is there to consider?" The Fat Lady screeched at the top of her voice. "Do you dare imply that perhaps my honor is not worth fighting for? That you fear to battle this paltry boy for my sake? You useless, cowardly—"

"Harry?" Hermione pushed the Fat Lady aside, interrupting her tirade, as she climbed out of the portrait hole. "I'm sorry I couldn't wait outside for you, but Lee Jordan was trying to advertise Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes products, and the first years were becoming quite excited. The password's _Bubotuber Pus_."

"Thanks," Harry said fervently, darting a look at Sir Cravhelm, who had skipped sideways to the next portrait when Hermione had come out. It may have been just his imagination, but Harry thought that the knight looked quite relieved too, and he gave the unfortunately lovelorn portrait a brief, reassuring smile before ducking into the Common Room.

* * *

**A/N: **Soo...let me know what you think? Please? I'd really appreciate constructive criticism!


	6. Desperate Measures

**Disclaimer: No, still not mine. I'm actually grateful that I don't have to deal with the pressure. **

**A/N: **Maybe I should just stop apologizing for how long these take and just accept that I'm not a particularly proficient writer. And maybe I should accept that this story is completely and absolutely AU and will remain so for as long as I continue to write it.

Yes, maybe.

* * *

"_Confound _it!" Draco snarled at the slightly mildewed, damp expanse of stone wall that was the entrance to the Slytherin common room. He would have used stronger words were it not for Snape's irritating habit of showing up at the most inopportune moments—and though he was a favorite with the Potions master, Snape's "gentle remonstrances," in Draco's opinion, were worse than his sarcastic remarks, and far lengthier.

"Problems, Draco?" At the sound of that all too familiar voice, Draco winced.

"Not at all," he said calmly, not turning around. "Not a single problem, Blaise. Don't let me keep you waiting," he added, gesturing politely towards the wall and turning to give her his most charming smile.

She snorted softly. "Do you really think that nothing's changed?" The laughter in her voice was more poisonous than her usual sarcastic sweetness. "You thought that your near-celebrity status would last forever, didn't you? Clever Draco, making a name for yourself by becoming Potter's arch-enemy in school and tormenting the Gryffindors whenever you could." She shook her head slowly, keeping her eyes on Draco. "Well, now everyone knows who you are. Are you satisfied?"

He looked up at her suddenly, and she was surprised to see his eyes glinting with amusement. "Perfectly satisfied. Now, Blaise, if you'll excuse me?" He bowed gracefully to her and swept off down the corridor, leaving the dark-haired Slytherin girl staring after him in utter astonishment.

There was no way she could see how hard his nails dug into the skin of his palms inside the sleeves of his robes.

* * *

"She doesn't know anything," Draco muttered to himself as he strode blindly down the dark passageway. "She's wrong, she's always wrong, nothing's changed…" But the lie that he had been trying to cling to through most of the summer had lost its charm. Blaise's scorn, the open disdain of a fellow Slytherin—even one who had hated him since they were both five years old—had made his change in station painfully clear, even more so than the half-hidden looks of disgust he had seen around the Great Hall during dinner. He walked still faster, not knowing or caring where he was going, only aware of Blaise's words, still echoing through his mind: _"Well, now everyone knows who you are. Are you satisfied?" _

"Damn you, Blaise," he snarled suddenly under his breath, still speeding towards he-knew-not-where. He turned a corner abruptly and ran straight into a scrawny fifth-year—a Gryffindor, Creely or Creepy or something of that sort.

"Malfoy!" the puny Gryffindor—was it Crawley?—squeaked happily. Draco's fury was submerged momentarily in complete confusion. A Gryffindor—and an undersized male one at that—was _happy_ to see him? The situation was worse than he had thought.

"Malfoy, I've been looking for you for ages after dinner—would you mind posing for a picture? I've asked everyone I knew, even Hermione Granger, and no one ever saw or heard of a curse with the Malfoy-head effect—see, they've even named it after you, and—"

Without waiting to hear any more, Draco whipped out his wand and pointed it at the skinny fifth-year's face. "Just one more word," he whispered, voice shaking with rage, "just _one _more word, and I swear I'll use the worst curse I know." The boy fell silent instantly, eyes wide behind his glasses—identical to Harry Potter's, Draco noted irrelevantly. "Good," Draco hissed venomously, "being in Gryffindor doesn't seem to have completely damaged your brain capabilities. Now _move_!" As the runt scuttled quickly out of the way, clutching his camera tightly to his chest, Draco swept past him, tucking his wand carefully back into his robes, resisting the temptation to snap it and trample the pieces.

His mind, Draco thought as he paced up and down a deserted passageway, didn't seem to be working properly anymore. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to explain to himself why the Slytherins would turn so suddenly on him—_him_, the Slytherin prince. Surely his looks didn't matter so much? They had not admired him, snickering at his jokes and laughing along with him at Potter for six years just because of his perfect blond hair, had they?

However, even as Draco posed this seemingly sensible question to himself, he knew the answer. Slytherins by nature were cunning and ambitious—loyalty was not one of their greater attributes. If trampling on someone else was the way to fame and achievement, then they would take it without hesitation, and it simply was not in them to continue worshipping someone—no matter how good a model of Slytherin qualities—who was a laughingstock for the rest of the school.

He winced as the full implications of this hit him. Draco Malfoy, for perhaps the first time in his pampered, spoiled life, was on his own.

_Unless_, he thought excitedly, his pacing doubling in speed and his strides growing longer, more confident, _unless I can win them back, show them that I'm still Draco Malfoy, show them that I haven't changed underneath this disfigured scalp of mine—that I'm still the Slytherin prince…but how?_

_Simple, you idiot, _a little voice inside his head said calmly, _forget about being 'Slytherin Prince' and start shaping up. You could start by being nice, you know, stop acting like a jerk—you have been rather cruel to people lately—_

_That's already established, _he snapped icily back, _and I don't need _you _talking to me after all these years of keeping quiet. You can go nag someone else. _

The voice fell silent—he had, after all, spent years teaching it to obey his every whim, and breakouts like the one he had just experienced were growing progressively rarer. _That's better, _Draco thought sweetly. _Now, where was I?_

A mere six minutes later, Draco had formulated his plan, jotting it down on a piece of parchment that he had Summoned from the nearest classroom.

_1. Continue being what I am: the best-looking and smartest Slytherin in the school._

_2. Buy a wig._

He considered number two for a brief second before slashing through it with his quill and hastily continuing.

_3. Mock Potter (and the other Gryffindors) even more to prove to the other Slytherins that I can still aggravate him more than anyone besides the Dark Lord himself. _

_4. Keeps sucking up to Snape so that he praises my potions—though heaven knows where he gets some of the compliments he comes up with. _

_5. Make fun of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. She looks like an easy target. _

"Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco barely glanced up. "What do you—oh, good _evening_, Professor Snape, sir."

Snape's thin lips twisted in a slight smile. "Isn't it a bit late to be up writing letters, Draco?"

"Why, no, sir, it's not that late, is it?" he asked innocently.

The Potions master raised an eyebrow. "Eleven 'o clock _is _considered rather late, usually."

Draco's eyes widened in real surprise. "_Eleven_, sir? I'm so sorry, Professor, I must have lost track of time—do forgive me," he added, looking pleadingly up at Snape. "After all," he continued on a stroke of inspiration, "love does tend to make one forget things, does it not?"

Snape seemed to be torn between his partiality towards Draco and his hatred for all things romantic. Lockhart's face swam into his mind, and he shuddered involuntarily.

"Professor?" The tall blond Slytherin was still on the floor, looking confusedly up at his teacher.

For Draco's sake, Snape managed to pull himself together. "Ah, yes, _love_ does tend to, ah, make one _forget_ things, does it not?" He pasted a sickly smile on his face.

"Professor, are you in love too?" Draco asked in a voice that seemed to Snape to be trembling with eagerness towards a fellow suitor. In reality, he was having trouble holding his laughter back.

"Heaven forbi—why, no, my dear boy, not at the moment, no. No," repeated Snape, who seemed to be having trouble moving beyond that one word, "I am not in love, no, most certainly not at the moment."

Draco blinked. "Very well, then, Professor—do wish me luck in my venture though, won't you?" he asked, climbing to his feet, the list held tightly in his hand.

Snape seemed to be on the verge of choking. "Yes, yes, Draco, ah, good luck with your…venture. Yes." Shaking his student's outstretched hand as quickly as possible, he positively fled down the corridor, muttering curses at Lockhart under his breath.

Ironically, it was then, as Draco lay sprawled on the floor, laughing, that he suddenly remembered that he still did not know the Slytherin password.

* * *

**A/N: **As usual, constructive criticism can make my day--and really, if you'd like to criticize, go right ahead. Just keep in mind that, yes, I do know that my fic is OOC and AU, and I'm not going to make an attempt to change it now. Hopefully, though, it is entertaining... 


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